Sunday, April 30, 2006

dear nfl owners, general managers, coaches, yesmen, and assorted lackeys of all shapes and sizes,

You may not see me on the boards or hear my names bandied about by the various prognosticators, but I'm still undrafted and available. I may not be graceful or play all that well, but you will not find a player more willing to cheat or play dirty than Rex L. Camino. Also, I am older and more mature and therefore less prone to horseplay and grabass.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

accidents will happen

Mrs. Camino is out of town for a few days, and the cat has taken to spending the night sleeping on my head in her absence. He is quite a large cat with a substantial purr that takes very little prompting, and this has led to dreams that I am one of those guys who carves things with blocks of ice and a chainsaw. I keep trying to carve a statue of Elvis Costello but always mess up on the glasses.
I am then left to splinter the whole thing into ice candlestick holders for some reason, and no one cares about seeing those.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

doodling for dollars?

Would anyone perusing this humble site be interested in purchasing a slightly disgruntled, yet enchanted and winged moose-thing doodled while I was suppose to be paying attention at a meeting to serve as the identity of your obscenely wealthy corporation? I named him Mordechai, but the winning bidder is welcome to change that.

buy me
(click to embiggen)

Just asking. Take a minute to think about it.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

return of the dreaded manuel labor

The Lady Camino had me outside pressure washing the driveway and fence all day, and the machinery was much too loud for headphones. Therefore, I had to stand there soaking wet in the heat trying to amuse myself in order to keep from thinking.
I learned that:
1. Those big ass crickets may be fast, but they are not so fast as to escape the geyser-like force of my father-in-law's industrial pressure washer.
2. It is quite difficult to pull off an image of Mary, Jesus, Ma Teresa, Pope John Paul, 2: the fast track to sainthood boogaloo, Princess Di, Pat Morita, or Don Knotts in a manner that gives it that "simply appeared" look.
3. Sun burns flesh.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

the first three things i would do to make this or any other season of "gilmore girls" more enjoyable for the television viewing public

1. Have one or preferably both of the Gilmore girls get kicked in the throat by a pack mule and thus injured in such a way as to leave them without the benefit of speech. I suppose that a plot with a mute-rendering virus would provide the same effect, but it would not have the added benefit of alerting the public to the very real danger of being kicked in the throat by a seemingly harmless pack mule. Anyway, the goal here is less of that rapid-fire talky-talk between the two of them while extras stand around portraying Star's Hollowites with patient shit-eating grins stretched across their faces. In real life, any number of even the kindest of small town New Englanders would have violently revoked the Gilmorian "gift" for the gab long ago.
2. I've been watching for years now, and Luke's hat has only grown more distracting. I want to like the character, but the hat, much like the ever present tool belt that draped Schneider on One Day at a Time, has disabled my ability to seriously consider him as a love interest. However, Rory's dad doesn't work either. No, what we need fresh blood.
Yes, I am also thinking that this could signal Jan Michael Vincent's triumphant return to television.
3. Have Lorelei's father (played by Edward Herrmann) turn out to be the head vampire. I like both him and his character, but all those redundant letters in the his last name have always bothered me. Still, we can give him a good send off and make a memorable season out of it. We can even have cameos by Keifer Sutherland and the Corys Haim and Feldman. He can kill off Sebastian Bach and all of Rory's annoying boyfriends first and then spend a few episodes proving himself a powerful and seemingly unstoppable plot twist.
...that is, until he meets the Airwolf.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

my apology to the rosie nation

I said some things about Rosie Greer a few months back, and not a day has gone by without at least one person winding up here after googling the gentle giant.
It occurs to me now that the phrase "googling the gentle giant" would make the greatest of euphemisms. The next time someone asks you what you've been up to lately, do your Rex a favor and tell them, "Oh, not much...just googling the ol' gentle giant whenever I get a chance".
But I digress.
Look, I'm not a mean person (outside of UT football, drunk friends passed out on the couch, and my interactions with children), and it eats away at me to think that gentle giant aficionados looking for info on Mr. Greer wind up at the Blog of Doom to read my disparaging remarks on his autobiography. I imagine sweet little old ladies who have seen Rosie on the religious channels and find him to be the cat's pajamas sitting in front of a computer for the first time and wondering what the internets think of their favorite former athlete turned frequent guest religious channels.
This is also how they got to know about the MC Hammer and the sinful life that led him into bankruptcy and left him with no other option than to show up on the religious channels.
Anyway, I want the Rosie Nation to know that I have nothing against their gentle giant. Sometimes people on the internets say things without thinking that a "Rosie Nation" exists, and I want it to be known that there is nothing but love for Mr. Greer in the heart of Rex L. Camino and that this isn't something worth me losing my job over.
Thank you.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

smokes and faulty roadmaps

I dreamed last night that I attended church with my 91 year old grandmother on a regular basis, and that she had signed me up for a sort of morality play being presented for the youth group. My scene was to showcase the sin of smoking cigarettes. I was playing an unemployed architect school drop-out who was trying to hide his pain in the comforting haze of his own smokescreen. The script didn't call for it, but I wore flannel pajamas and a bathrobe on stage. The other character in the scene was an understanding landlord who stops by the apartment to see why I haven't paid rent in six months and ends up telling me how Jesus can help me stop smoking. He was played by the late Art Carney.
Anyway, the role meant that I had to smoke right there on the makeshift stage in the church gymnasium, and my grandmother bought me a pack of Marlboro 100's for just the occasion. The odd thing about this is that I don't really smoke on a regular basis, and being in the play meant that I had to for at least the run of the play (they were eventually bringing in schoolkids to see it). In real life I smoke a pipe a couple of times a week. I also smoke cigarettes every few months but tend to make to make it worth my while with something better than Marlboro.
However, the worst thing about the play was that my grandmother bought me 100's. I am unable to waste anything. I will stand at the fridge and try to finish a milk carton that is about to go bad or eat some cheese that appears in the midst of serious mold contemplation rather than throw it out. I'm getting much better at it, but my progress has yet to allow me to take a couple of drags off a Marlboro 100 and then stamp it out in front of an audience of children a couple of times a day. I could merely light a cigarette and then pretend to smoke it, but it really bothers me to see actors do this.
The night before that I dreamed that someone was putting out a series of Rex L. Camino roadmaps. It wasn't me and I wasn't seeing a dime from it. The way I found out was by walking into a gas station and seeing one on display. It was Missouri. That was all that had been released so far, and they were selling them in middle Tennessee gas stations for some reason.
I unfolded one and found it difficult to read, as the words YOU ARE READING A REX L. CAMINO MAP were written boldly across most of the state. However, I could see enough to tell that St. Louis and Kansas City were located on opposite side of an interstate exit in the geographic center of the state. Albuquerque was right there with them.
I'm not one for dream interpretation, but those of you who are can feel free to twist and turn these into some big cohesive message that I have thus far been ignoring.

Monday, April 10, 2006

where will they find a shoebox big enough?

The sad reality of cat and dog ownership is that you will most likely outlive your pets. It isn't something one wants to contemplate until that day draws painfully near, but these creatures, no matter how much like children we treat and think of them, will not survive to carry on without us. If we are lucky we will get to spend a good twelve or so years with them before they pass peacefully at the end of a happy life.
Not like Old Yeller.
No. Rabid dogs do not in fact live long and happy lives...and neither do dogs who are fed baking soda and made to look rabid by vengeful and heartless puppets who then convince the owner that it is best for all involved if the animal is given the "Old Yeller treatment".
The bastard tried to chew my leg off.
But we are not here to open old wounds.
What were you getting at, Captain Bringdown?
I've been thinking quite about a recently deceased giant aldabra tortoise by the name of "Addwaitya" who passed away at the Kolkata, India zoo from kidney failure last month. He was 250 freakin' years old.
Giant turtles are known for their longevity, and I knew it wasn't unheard of for them to surpass a couple of centuries, but this fact somehow remains as unfathomable with each pondering as it was the first time I heard it. It is not unlike that recurring jolt of confusion that overtakes every non-Californian each time they catch the phrase "Governor Schwarzenegger" in the midst of an actual news story.
Addwaitya was originally the pet of a British military officer by the name of Robert Clive. Clive died in 1774. The turtle then lived through the time of the American Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, the Industrial Revolution, the reign of Queen Victoria, the American Civil War, the advent of the airplane, both World Wars, the moon landing, the release of Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti, the rise and fall of Lee Majors as a viable television action star, my 1999 wedding to the lovely Mrs. Camino, that whole "millennium thing" that didn't end up in a big computer snafu and therefore meant that I had to show up to work on New Year's Day to open the damn bookstore and let all the old people in to drink coffee and flip through the magazines and talk to me while I feigned interest through a hangover, the election of the aforementioned Schwarzenegger, and the death of Pat Morita.
All the while the turtle sat there drinking, not knowing that the day would come when his kidneys could take no more. Oh, the tragedy of it all.
As you can see, Mr. Clive did not have to bury his pet turtle. Neither did his son, grandson, great-grandson, great-great grandson, great-great-great grandson, great-great-great-great grandson, or great-great-great-great-great grandson.
I suppose that a person wanting a long-lasting pet can also invest in a large bird, but parrots and their ilk have been known to bite off the fingers or peck out the eyes of their owners and then perch nearby and laugh a shrill and evil laugh.
Turtles rarely perch.
They don't take pleasure in your pain either, but it is rather difficult to curl up on the couch and watch you favorite episodes of "The Fall Guy" with a giant aldabra tortoise.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

an irish spring

Is anybody else sweating more than usual this Spring? I mean, Springtime is the season when my sweaty nature returns in all its glory, but it has been like a freaking Sergio Leone film with me for the last few weeks, irregardless of my being in a cold office or the ever-warming out of doors.
Perhaps it's all the tap and/or river dancing. I told you stop flailing your arms like a spastic bastard.
Wasn't that an eighties band?
You're thinking of Spandau Ballet.
That certainly looks more like a collection of spastic bastards to me.
I know that much is true.
Was that a shot of them crossing the Delaware?
Yes. Not many people know this, but the Revolutionary War pitted our God-fearing, yet atheistic founding fathers against the most androgynous of British pop musical offerings from the nineteen eighties.
I still don't understand why we didn't get that history teaching gig.
Neither do I. Our paper on "Cornwallis and Kajagoogoo" was nothing short of brilliant.
But seriously, why am I so sweaty?

Wednesday, April 05, 2006


Tapdancing has as much to do with the arms as with the feet. Any aspiring tapdancer who fails to accept or even recognize this should do the honorable thing and relegate themselves to the rigid-armed spectacle of mountain folkdancing.
People, I shouldn't have to keep saying this.

Monday, April 03, 2006

spring careening

It was my first weekend off since early February, and I spent part of it behind the lawn mower. I filled the humid air with smell of cut grass and chopped wild onion with a hint of freshly ground dog shit and then came in smelling of these three and a thick coat of human sweat. My balding scalp and the back of my neck were beet red, and something about that state of affairs really signals the opening of Spring and embiggens one to shake off winter and again feel alive.
And when a man has really earned his stench, there is no better time for an afternoon beer.
Too bad I was out of beer. Sure, there is probably a Michelobe Ultra somewhere cowering behind the horseradish and cocktail sauces in the door of the fridge, but that isn't beer.
Then I cleaned myself up a bit and went shopping with the lovely Mrs. Camino. I was in the market for shorts. Trying to find new shorts is another Spring tradition, and whether it is due to seeing my legs for the first time in months or the techno music pumped into most of the clothiers, these trips often bear little fruit. Still, a day spent wandering around with Mrs. Camino is never a day wasted.
My third Spring tradition is to break out my cheap little cassette four track and lock myself away in the rexroom-turned-makeshift-studio for various recording projects. This is generally for my own amusement, but I figured I would share them here. It is the lowest of lo-fi, and anyone with dial up internet will have a bugger of a time trying to listen to a song without interruption, but I have put a few of them up at Myspace under the title of "the Kingsley String Band". I might switch the songs out occasionally, but it will primarily consist of some original instrumentals with the occasional cover thrown in. You can even download them, I think, but my connection is too feeble to attempt such a feat.